Chapter Four (December 31, 1968) (Draft)

Tuesday, December 31, 1968

(Sioux City, Iowa)

What a mess.

Jennifer’s been missing about a week; my sister-in-law Hazel hasn’t heard from her in ages.

The doorman at Hazel’s building said that a few weeks ago Jennifer and some long-haired hippies tried to talk their way into Hazel’s apartment while she was away, in Las Vegas. Jennifer told him some cockamamie story about leaving a dress behind and wanting to pick it up, but the doorman didn’t buy it–he was sure they were there to steal. He wouldn’t let the hippies in, but agreed to accompany Jennifer to the apartment, where she glanced around and announced, "I can’t find it; I must’ve taken it with me," and left.

I can’t believe that a child of mine would steal, especially from a relative. This can’t be my little girl–it must be the drugs driving her to such despicable behavior.

* * * * *

My little girl. Seems so long ago when we took her away from Mary Lou. Back in ‘57, we had no choice but to go out to L.A. and get Jennifer and the baby out of that situation. Neighbors called, said those kids were running wild, Robin not even two yet, Jennifer her only caretaker. Plus, Mary Lou’s drinking and her fights with Stan escalated, becoming loud and violent–the police called several times.

Then we found out two months after the fact that the girls had been run over by a truck. Thank God, they weren’t seriously hurt, but it was only a matter of time before they’d be injured or worse.

We decided to go out, see for ourselves. We didn’t tell Mary Lou we were coming–too easy for her to mask the situation.

Stan’s a decent man, but our Mary Lou proved to be too much of a handful.
In L.A., with Stan’s help, Olive and I rented, on a month-to-month lease, a furnished two-bedroom apartment in the same building and got ourselves settled and organized.
When we showed up, well after one in the afternoon, Mary Lou was still in bed, hung over. When she came to the door, she looked twice her age, not the 26-year-old woman we gave birth to, her skin yellow and lined, makeup smeared, her snarled hair bleached blond with dark red roots.

"What do you want?" She lit up a cigarette, her hands shaking.

We had some words–not very nice.

We found Robin in her crib, her pajamas sopping wet. The smell was overwhelming–I wouldn’t treat a mangy dog that poorly. She played with her stuffed bunny, talking to herself.

Amazing what kids will tolerate.

"Where’s Jennifer?" I asked.

"Where do you think, asshole? In school."

"No lip," Olive said. "Your father just asked a simple question."

"Who needs it?" Mary Lou asked.

"Why does everything we say have to result in fighting and name calling?" Olive said.

She wasn’t helping matters much–sometimes, it’s better to ignore the nasty words and move on.

"How does she get home?"

"She walks. Do I look like a taxicab?"

I wanted to slap her, but it was more important to pick up Jennifer, get her settled into our apartment, at least for the time being.

"I wasn’t making a judgment. I just want to meet her, that’s all."

Mary Lou mumbled the name of the school and gave me some rough directions.

After a few more angry words, Mary Lou agreed to allow us temporary custody of Robin. Olive took her to our apartment to bathe and feed her; I went to meet Jennifer.

I spotted her about two blocks from home, walking with a boy her age. They held hands.

"Jennifer," I whispered. I didn’t want to frighten her–she might not recognize me right away.

Two years is a long time for a seven year old.

She kept walking.

"Jennifer." A little louder now.

Still, she paused, and didn’t answer.

"It’s Dee Dee, honey," I said, invoking my family nickname.

"Oh, oh, oh!" she said to the boy. "It’s my grandmother, I mean, my grandfather. You’re really here." She took my hand, and tried to steer me to the middle of the block to cross.

"She’s afraid to cross at the crosswalk," the boy said. "But at the jaywalk, she ain’t."

"Don’t worry," I said, gripping her hand. "You’ll be safe with me."

It’s a promise I’ve tried like hell to keep.

* * * * *

I don’t have a good feeling about this situation. We should have done something about Jennifer when we were out in October, but she assured us she was doing fine, although she admitted to experimenting with pot last summer. Said she was through with all that, and she looked okay, so we didn’t intervene–she was working, after all, her employers pleased with her job performance. She caught on fast; they were thinking of sending her to school for more training. But now, I hear, she’s walked off the job–hasn’t called in–nothing. Her supervisor says her job performance has dropped off, but, he, too, is puzzled by her odd behavior, it was so sudden. So unlike her. And then there’s the overdrawn checking account, the bad checks. She’d saved a lot of money–I wonder if someone else is draining her account dry.

Apparently, she’s moved out of the dorm and into some hippie apartment building, God knows where, apparently without a phone. She refuses to tell Hazel or Mary Lou her address, and sporadically shows up, all bedraggled, dirty, and barefoot, looking pathetic and hinting for money and food.

I don’t have any choice. I have to fly out and find her.

–Harley Semple

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